Whipping Boys
by JACmRob
Summary: They're prisoners of war pretending to be soldiers. And now they have to get out. post-promised day, canon!divergence, graphic violence
1. Defiance

_A/N: Takes place in a reimagined Amestris post-Promised Day, a bit post-apocalyptic._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing_

* * *

Ed sees the look on the kid's face and he knows—he _knows_ —that this is wrong, so wrong. It's all he needs to see, before he's sprinting from Mustang and Hawkeye's side, through the crowd and to the center of the square.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the kid's pleading over and over, "I'm sorry, it was a joke, just a joke, I'm sorry…"

The kid's hands are tied to the post before him; he's staring terrified over his shoulder at the officer who twirls a thin, leather whip in his hands. The new Furor's military police dress in white. They say it befits their rank, but Ed thinks it's so that they can be easily spotted. The procurers of justice don't have to hide, don't have to pretend they aren't always watching. Ed's blue and gold feels dull by comparison, useless.

"Hey!" Ed barrels into the scene, grabbing the arm of the soldier before the whip can fall. "What do you think you're doing? He's just a kid!"

The soldier's white cape slaps Ed in the face as the man turns, and when his snarl softens Ed wonders what the penance would have been if he _hadn't_ been in a uniform.

"A kid who needs to learn to watch his mouth under the new order," the elite sneers. "Stand down, soldier."

The kid's looking up at Ed with wide, scared eyes, and Ed instantly thinks of Al. Al, who is at his side almost instantly, Al, who is whispering words of caution in his ear.

"You can't whip a kid for a few wrong words! He didn't know any better!"

"I said _stand down_!" The officer elbows Ed hard in the side and then the butt of the whip is raised high into the air again. Ed doesn't think—just reacts—and his fist crashes into the officer's face.

"Brother no!"

Ed remembers what Mustang told him once, right after Grumman's coup following the Promised Day. _We're prisoners of war pretending to be soldiers._ In an instant, he's pinned to the ground by military police officers. The man he punched is bearing over him, shaking in anger, red blood dripping onto his regalia of white.

" _How. Dare. You_."

Ed's full weight is lifted off the ground; his military jacket is torn off and he's pushed face-first into something hard. He struggles and kicks but there's too many men and he hasn't got alchemy anymore, just his fists, which are being bound with rope, and suddenly he's hugging the whipping post and two rough hands tear his shirt apart with a _schht_. The air is cold and raises goosebumps on his bare back.

"Twenty lashes for your insubordination. And then you'll take this boy's five, since you seem to have an argument against justice."

Ed squeezes his arms around the pole, ready for the bite of the whip. He can hear Al fighting with the military police; he won't have Al be next. The sneering officer cracks the whip, and Ed flinches. It hasn't touched him yet. He won't scream, he won't scream, he won't—

"Commander Renly!" A deep voice cuts through the noise and Ed feels his shoulders sag in relief. _Mustang._ "What are you doing to my subordinate?"

" _Your_ subordinate? This piece of filth is one of yours, Mustang? I should have known."

"Let him go," Mustang says firmly. "Whatever he did, it isn't your place to punish him. He isn't under your command."

"But you see, Mustang, my rank far exceeds your own." Ed peeks over his shoulder to see Renly squaring off with his Colonel. "As a member of the Furor's military police, I have the unique power to deal out justice to any Amestrian citizen who threatens the regime's stability."

"What has he done to threaten Grumman's regime? Called you a name? Stuck his tongue out at you? I thought you'd be above letting some teenager's petty insults shake you up."

"He stood in the way of justice!" Renly roars. "There is no place in this regime for a soldier who cannot respect orders!"

"Then let me punish him," Mustang says smoothly. Yes. Ed never thought the day would come when he would be begging for Mustang's penance. He knows to keep his mouth shut, knows he's in deep shit now, and maybe Mustang's perseverance is all that can get him out. "There's no need for this. Let him go, and I assure you I won't forget this incident."

"No," Renly says softly, "You won't. As his commander, _you'll_ give him the twenty-five lashes."

Renly offers Mustang the whip. Ed sees Mustang's pale face go a shade whiter and he knows he's fucked.

"I won't."

"That's an _order_ —" The word is barked so loudly that Ed hears someone in the crowd shriek in surprise. "—Mustang. Did you hear what I said about soldiers who can't obey orders?"

"Be reasonable, Renly." Mustang's voice has a note that Ed's never heard before; it sounds alien until he realizes what it is. Pleading.

"Here's reasonable. You give this pathetic excuse for a soldier his twenty-five lashes, or the military police will be taking him to the Central Prison, where I assure you, the punishment will be less forgiving."

"You can't do this, Colonel!" Al's voice. Ed's heart clenches. "Let him go! Let my brother go! He hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Don't make me do this, Renly."

"Real lashes, Mustang. I'll know if you go easy on him. Then it'll be twenty-five more."

Mustang takes the whip. He's got a look in his eyes that Ed's never seen before, this horrible, pained expression of guilt. His eyes say _I'm sorry_ , and Ed can't meet them with anything but defiance. _I'm a prisoner too._ Ed can't answer that, and when Mustang's lips form a hard line he squeezes his eyes shut, and the whip comes down on his back.

He doesn't know when he starts screaming, but he knows it isn't at the first lash, or even the fifth. He grits his teeth. He won't give them the satisfaction. He won't let Mustang know how much it hurts.

But it hurts, it _hurts_ , and the pain eventually eclipses everything else. He can't even remember why he's here in the first place, what he did, all he can anticipate is the next biting sting, the skin of his back being torn to ribbons. Twenty-five lashes. It feels like a hundred; he's shaking from the pain and he knows he's screaming but he can't help it, he can't stop, unless Mustang stops. The tail of the whip strikes against where his skin has already been ripped, against the pink tissue peeking through. It feels like he's been struck with a live wire.

And then it's over. His back feels raw, hypersensitive. Ice cold and burning hot at the same time. He can feel blood dripping down his legs. Roughly, his hands are untied, and he collapses to the ground.

Strong arms grab him and Ed jerks away. He's lifted onto someone's shoulders, and his back screams in agony at every twitch. Now it's Mustang, murmuring the litany in his ear. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you're alright, I'm sorry…_ Ed can't do anything but whimper from the pain, wish to be unconscious.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ It's all a prisoner can be.

* * *

 _A/N: Not sure where this little ficlet came from. May follow it up with a few more oneshots in this world, where all our favorites are being targeted by the new regime. Working on the next chapter of Sun Hands, for anyone following it-I'm sorry it's been so slow coming! Having a tough time deciding plot things, which means I can't finish up the next chapter. It'll be coming soon though._

 _-JR_


	2. To Come Quietly

_A/N: I initially intended the previous chapter to be a oneshot, but I'm feeling lots of inspiration in this authoritarian Amestris. There are more challenges for our favorites to go through yet._

 _Disclaimer: Not mine._

* * *

A prisoner is at the mercy of his captors.

Roy doesn't feel safe taking Ed back to the barracks, or headquarters, or even the military hospital—Grumman's men are everywhere, sniffing out weakness. As fast as he can, he lugs the kid to his own apartment, Hawkeye and a hysterical Alphonse in tow. Alphonse somehow summons the Rockbell girl, who's at his door before Roy can even lay Ed stomach-first on the kitchen table. She knows emergency medicine better than any field doctor Roy's seen, and is a flurry of action by Ed's side, though she wipes a veil of tears from her eyes.

Roy for his part can't bear to watch. Ed's back looks like a piece of raw meat, minced and shredded and glistening red and white. Either Winry's given him something or he's passed out from the pain, but the kid's unconscious and Roy is thankful for that. Instead, Roy leaves Alphonse by the kid's side and takes up pacing back and forth across his parlor, letting darkness settle in the room as the day fades to dusk. Hawkeye sits on the sofa, silent, unmoving.

 _My work. My marks along the kid's back._ Didn't he swear never to hurt a member of his team? To protect them with his life? Roy agonizes over the scene again and again, trying to think if there was another way, a better way. Roy doesn't know what the kid Ed jumped in front of did to earn the whipping post, but he'll bet his life it wasn't warranted. Ed is just too noble, too kind—his moral outrage will be ripped out from him and thrown back with blood, until he breaks or he's killed. Roy knows which is likely to come first. Ed could never turn a blind eye to injustice, not even for his own safety. Especially not for his own safety.

And Roy, for his part, wonders how much longer he can keep playing the game of loyalty, before it no longer protects his people. _No longer,_ his mind is hissing. _It no longer protects your people._ He hears a whimper of pain from the kitchen, hears Winry offering low words of comfort, snapping orders to Al, hears Ed moan again, this time louder, more pained—

Grumman's regime is making bold strides to reshape the corrupt governance of Amestris, to 'rip out the weeds and drown the rats,' as the pamphlets put it. As a Colonel under Bradley, as an alchemist in the Ishbalan War, Roy is a weed. He's clung weakly to his post since the Promised Day; he's done all he could to keep his team intact and safe. But Grumman's regime has launched a brutal investigation, and now the military tribunals are beginning, and Roy knows he won't last long.

Roy knows that Grumman is not a ruthless man. He chose the path most conducive to taking power, sold out all his old alliances and condemned the military's every move since Bradley's reign. Roy can tell that Grumman loves the power. Really, he could always tell, could always see that calculating glint in the man's eye, and Roy was a fool if he ever thought he could call the man an ally, or a friend. The grey-haired bastard on the other side of the chess table was too much like himself.

Roy also knows that Grumman's powerful new syndicates will not hesitate to be ruthless, and that Grumman has given them too much power to retain control over them. He suspects that his ties to Riza are all that are keeping him from a cell in Central Prison, or even the firing squad. But Grumman will bend eventually, bend to the monster he's created. Roy's only glimpsed the man in press conferences, but he seems different—like a shadow is weighing over him.

The room is fully dark now, but Roy can't bear to turn on a light. His mind is screaming paranoia. Instead, he pads back to the kitchen.

Ed's back is swathed in bandages. A bucket of water stained bright red is sitting by the table. Winry is wiping the blood from between the strips of gauze with a rag, another hand resting on the nape of Ed's neck, curling into his gold hair, dull in the sterile lights of Roy's kitchen. Roy's gut clenches. Ed's face is turned towards him, eyes closed, breath hitching raggedly.

"Thank you," Roy tells Winry quietly.

She stops her work, looks up at him, and her eyes are cold. Roy knows Alphonse has told her what happened. _I had to do it_ , he wants to tell her. _For his sake. I had to._ But he says nothing, doesn't let his face betray emotion. He knows she hates him more for that.

He turns back to the parlor.

Alphonse has followed him, his newly restored body looking especially thin and fragile in the half-light spilling from the kitchen.

"I tried to explain, Colonel," Al says hesitantly. "She's just upset. She hates see him hurt."

 _As do I._ Guilt and loathing surge forward, and Roy feels like a monster.

"Alphonse, I'm—"

"You don't have to apologize sir," Al says glumly. "I know why you did it. I know you had to."

Roy can't help but glance toward the window—can't help his paranoia—before he leans in closely.

"The military isn't safe for Ed anymore. As alchemists, we're Grumman's enemies. They'll come for me soon, and when they do, I can't protect him anymore. Hell, I can't protect him now."

"What do we do?" Al asks. Without the metallic ring of the armor, his voice sounds too young, like a child. Roy shakes his head, his throat tightening.

"I'll get you out of Amestris," Roy promises. "I'll find a way to send your brother on a mission out of the country—to Xing maybe, he's got friends there. Take Miss Rockbell too and get out while you can."

He has no idea how he'll pull this off with the regime watching him so closely, but he'll have to try.

"What about you? And Lieutenant Hawkeye? You'll leave too?"

After all he's been through, Roy can't believe Al's naiveté. Hawkeye looks up from the couch, meeting his eyes. No. Roy will not give up so easily.

"You're going to leave, right?" Al persists.

Roy is saved the trouble of answering. There's a knock on the door, and Roy feels a thrill of fear. It can't be. Not yet.

"Are you going to answer?" Riza asks quietly. Roy's mouth goes dry. They can't come for him yet, not when he's been obedient, not when he's shredded the skin of Edward's back just to retain their favor. Al has noticed his unease; the boy looks fearfully between him and the lieutenant.

The knock comes again, more insistent.

"Amestrian Military Police, open up in the name of the Furor!"

"Colonel, don't," Al whispers. Winry appears from the kitchen, still holding her rag, her mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise.

Roy opens the door.

The Military Police are waiting, in their blinding white uniforms. Riza is off of the couch, at Roy's shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he sees her hand travel to the back of her waistband, where he knows a gun is deftly tucked.

"Roy Mustang, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity during the Ishbalan War of Extermination, for the abuse of alchemy as a weapon of war, for conspiring with the denounced King Bradley."

Riza's in front of him before he can stop her.

"If you take him, you take me too."

Roy places a hand on her shoulder. "No. I still need you, Lieutenant. And not in prison."

"Let's go, Mustang," one of the officers snaps. He holds a pair of cuffs in his gloved hands. Is now the time to abandon loyalty? Is now the time to cleanly resist. The Military Police officers are armed to the teeth, but Roy has his ignition gloves in his pocket, and he can whip them on faster than these fuckers can cock a gun. They expect him to resist. There's probably more backup hidden in the alleys around his apartment.

No. If he fights, anyone who has ever befriended him will be punished. Fullmetal would resist, and look where that resistance landed the kid. Roy knows when he has the upper hand, and when he doesn't. He will not allow any more of his people to suffer on his behalf. A prisoner is at the mercy of his captors.

"Carry on without me, Lieutenant."

And he allows himself to be taken.

* * *

 _A/N: nooo Roy! You can expect one or two more chapters in this verse. I want to see it through. Next up another Ed POV, featuring Al and Winry, dealing with Mustang's imprisonment. Thanks for reading._

 _-JR_


	3. To Flee

_A/N: well another classically late update but I guess this proves I don't abandon my stories, just put them on indefinite hiatus til I reemerge into the fandom. Good thing I'm on a FMA kick now so expect an update to Sun Hands as well!_

 _Disclaimer: I do not write FMA for a living :(_

* * *

Ed comes to on Mustang's kitchen table, a hurricane of epic proportions raging through Central City outside. He doesn't realize this right away, doesn't recognize anything except the sheer _pain_ coursing through his body. He makes to move but it's too much, his cheek hits the table and he whimpers.

"Don't move. You'll rip the scabs."

There's pressure on his back, something cool blotting at his skin, what's left of it. And then all he can feel are barbs of pain that shoot up his spine, nerve by nerve, like automail reattachment. He whimpers again, chest tightening, he can't—

"Breathe for me, Ed," Winry whispers, her voice somehow clear through the pain. Rain pounds on the window. "With me. In…and out. C'mon, again. That's it. I know it hurts, Ed. I know. But just breathe with me. You're okay."

He counts his breaths as she continues to clean his wounds, fighting the rising nausea and the tears that are pricking at his eyelids. He won't cry, he won't cry, he won't—

"That's it, Ed, that's it. I'm done for now. You're okay."

She threads her fingers through his hair and he doesn't protest; it feels good after all that pain, it feels safe and gentle and Winry and Winry—

"Mustang…" he mumbles, "where's Mustang?"

"They took him," Winry says. He turns his head to look at her. Her hair's tied up, loose strands curling around her face, blue eyes wide and afraid. "He says—he says they're going to come for you, and Al too, and Ed what are we going to do?"

But Ed doesn't have any answers now. Outside the storm is unleashing its fury, rattling the windowpanes. He's never felt more helpless than he does now, unable to move, unable to think, tingling with the fear of what's closing in.

* * *

It's been three days and the storm hasn't quieted. They haven't left Mustang's house either.

"They think the Colonel's out of the way," Hawkeye says, tightlipped, "they won't come looking for you here. It's the safest place in the meantime."

She doesn't say what Ed knows she's thinking, knows they're all thinking: _and Ed can't move, isn't well enough, will be too slow…_

"You said the Colonel wanted to get us out of the city," Ed says through gritted teeth. "Didn't he have a plan? Al and Winry can go, and I'll catch up in the meantime—"

"No."

Winry and Al both say it simultaneously, both wearing scowls fierce enough that he'll have to physically fight them to agree, and he isn't up for that now.

"Is there anything I can—"

"Save it, Ed. We're sticking together." Winry crosses her arms over her chest. There are bags under her eyes. She hasn't slept properly for days, has been too busy tending to his injuries, making sure the infection doesn't spread. How many times has she done this for him?

The wind rattles outside and Ed's gaze snaps to the door, a burst of adrenaline that makes him feel nauseous when it fades. Just the wind. He's got to get out of here; it's making him crazy.

"Did you know anything about what Mustang was planning, Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Al asks softly.

The Lieutenant only shakes her head. _He didn't have a plan_ , Ed thinks savagely. _He was making it up._ The surge of anger that follows only makes him feel worse. Mustang's not to blame, not for any of it. But he wants to be angry at the man, wants to rage and scream at him for not being able to fix this. The stupid bastard with his omnipresence and his connections and his stupid smug smile when he steps in to fix whatever Ed fucks up—he should be able to fix this.

"We've got some time before your heads are on the chopping block. As long as you keep a low profile we can get you out of Central."

"But maybe not out of Amestris."

Every border has been strengthened since Grumman took power, tens of thousands of new soldiers sworn into the military, hopping aboard trains, shaking down civilians. Grumman's army isn't to keep enemies out; it's to keep people in. The new age of peace, only reachable when the land has been thoroughly cleansed. _What makes Grumman think he has any more of a right to decide those things than Father did?_

Suddenly there's a knock on the door. Winry's eyes meet his, wide blue like ice.

"Ed, hide in the kitchen," Hawkeye commands, drawing her gun.

Al helps Ed stand and they hobble out of sight, as Hawkeye calls, "who goes there?"

There's a mumble from outside and then the door opens. It's Havoc, wet hair plastered to his forehead and a limp cigarette between his teeth. His mouth twitches when he sees Ed and Al coming out from the kitchen. He drops his soaked coat to the floor.

"Jesus, it's a mess out there."

"I assume you're not just talking about the storm?" Hawkeye asks cautiously.

Havoc scrubs at his eyes, and Ed knows what's coming.

"Falman's been arrested." The news is met with silence. "He's not the only one. The Briggs men are being painted as conspirators. No one's seen or heard from General Armstrong in days. And there's more." Havoc took a breath. "They're going after alchemists. Trying to paint them as the scapegoats from the Promised Day. You know, big alchemical disaster. There's talk that he's going to decommission all state alchemists."

"I wouldn't care," Ed growled. "I don't want anything to do with the military anymore."

"Thought you might say that. But you'll want to have a look at this."

Havoc tosses a damp newspaper at him. Ed spreads it on the table and sees his own face glaring back at him, kneeling between two soldiers at the whipping post. The headline reads "HERO" OF THE PEOPLE REJECTS AGE OF PEACE.

 _"Mj. Edward Elric, 16, named the Fullmetal Alchemist denounces the new Fuhrer's plans to rebuild after the terrible tragedy this spring. Elric, recognized as the "people's alchemist", is well known for the theatric displays he uses to earn worship, but sources speculate that his antics go beyond a teenager's desire for attention. "He wants to build an army," an anonymous insider told. "That's always been his plan—to build his own militia and make himself a Fuhrer." But is the "Hero of the People" a hero_ for _the people? Sources confirm that Elric was involved in the events of the Promised Day, and may have even led to the deaths of…"_

Ed throws down the paper, unable to read anymore.

" _Hero worship_? _Building an army_? Where the hell did this come from?"

"Grumman's fucked up head? Or one of those psycho syndicates controlling him?" Havoc settles onto the couch as Ed scans the article.

"This is unbelievable. They're saying Alphonse is conspiring with me. They're saying I'm—I'm responsible for _Hughes's death_!"

Ed throws the paper across the room, rage boiling.

"I know, Ed," Havoc says bitterly. "But if Grumman's people are printing this, they think you're a threat. A big one. They'll making you out to be some deranged kid with a god complex so he can arrest you without the people protesting."

Before the Promised Day, Ed would have thought about marching to Military Headquarters and giving Grumman a good fist in the face. But now he understands this twisted game better, understands the dance Mustang performed for so long. The people on top control everything, and they always know where to poke when you strike at them. Maybe Grumman himself isn't even in control anymore; maybe this has all become a runaway train and there's no way to hit the brakes anymore. _Nothing's changed since the Promised Day,_ he thinks bitterly, _we've just switched from one evil to another._

"We can't wait around here any longer," Al says. The heat of his body, all flesh, breathing, is a small comfort.

"Yeah." Havoc lights a new cigarette. "That's part of why I came. Listen, there's a supplies train leaving central at ten tonight, and I know the conductor. It's going to a small outpost in the east. From there it'd be easy to slip past the soldiers and cross the desert into Xing."

"Hang on just a minute," Ed protests. "If we run, the first place they'll look is Risembool. Or Dublith. What about Granny? Teacher?"

"I'll call Granny," Winry says at once. "Tell her to take a vacation. They don't know what she looks like."

"And we can warn Teacher too," Al adds. "Tell her to denounce us as students. Tell her to say that Edward Elric's an attention seeking brat and she regrets everything she ever taught us about alchemy. She's strong. She can take care of herself."

"But what about…"

What about Mustang? He doesn't want to say it out loud because he hates that bastard but the thought of leaving him to rot in a prison cell makes Ed feel sick.

"The rest of us will be fine," Hawkeye says, as if reading his mind. "We'll find a way to stop this. Especially if you can somehow get that Prince Ling on our side."

"It makes sense, Brother," Al says in a small voice. "We won't be much use in hiding in Amestris."

Ed looks at his brother, looks at the marvel of his body, still barely more than skin and bone but getting stronger every day.

"Alright," he says. And he hates that they're running but Mustang's right: they're just prisoners here, and prisoners can't fight a war inside their cells. He hates more that somewhere deep down he's relieved, because the truth is that he's tired. He's so tired of fighting for a world that doesn't get any better.

"C'mon Ed." Winry tugs him to his feet. "Let me wrap your back."

He lets her lead him to the kitchen and pack the wounds tightly, lets her tie fresh bandages around his chest and inject him with something for the pain.

"You don't have to do this," he tells her. "You could pretend I'm a traitor too. They don't have any reason to come after you if you don't protect me."

She stops bandaging.

"Why do you insist on pushing me away?"

"I just don't want you to get hurt." He feels like he's said it a thousand times. He's tired of that too.

But she stands with her hands on her hips, radiating strength. "Ed, do you think I would still be here if I didn't want to be?"

"I just—"

"You and Al are my family," she says fiercely. "I don't care what comes with that. Family sticks together. You can't get rid of me, so stop trying."

Ed doesn't know what instinct he's following when he puts his hand on her head, draws her to him. He's afraid, so afraid, that they won't make it out of this. And so many things he pushed away in his head are bubbling up to the surface. He thought there would be time.

"I'm sorry I keep fucking up your life," he mumbles into her hair. It smells good, like peaches, and how can her hair smell like peaches when the world's going to shit around them?

"You dummy." She hugs him tighter, hands skirting around the bandages. "We're going to be fine."

And then the bubble of fear bursts, and he can't stop himself when he tips her head back and presses his lips to her own.

For a moment Winry doesn't move, but then her hands are threaded through his hair and her mouth seeks his hungrily, sucks on his lower lip. He runs his hands up and down her waist and she kisses him harder. Winry, like peaches and motor oil and softness and strength, sweet precious thing. This, _this_. His fingers play under the strap of her tank top, smooth pearly skin and he wants to touch it all.

"Ed," Winry murmurs, kissing his jaw and his chin and then back to his lips and oh—why didn't he know how good this could be? Why did he think there would be time? He grinds himself into her, pushes his hips against hers and she moans low in his mouth when she feels him.

And then Hawkeye's voice from the other room reminds him of where he is and he pulls away. Winry's face is bright red and he's sure his is the same.

"I—I don't want to stop." Her laugh is nervous and her fingers ghost his arms before jerking back hesitantly.

"Me neither." He feels giddy; his legs are quivering and his breathing's coming out too fast. Maybe they're all going to be arrested but he's _kissing_ Winry, something he's only ever fantasized about. He can hear Al's smug voice in his head: _spectacular timing, Brother..._

He pulls her back to him, pressing their foreheads together.

"I…um, I wanted…"

"Me too." She kisses the corner of his mouth shyly. "Now we have to get out of here, because there's a lot more I want to do with you. So promise we'll be fine? Or you don't get to find out."

"Ok," he says, sure his face is scarlet. "Ok."

* * *

A/N: yay for awkward virgin romances with terrible timing! I love Winry, she's such an undervalued character. Aaaand will Havoc's plan work or am I pure evil? you'll have to find out

-JR


	4. Tick Boom

_A/N: Trigger warning for suicidal ideation_

* * *

After they shut him in the cell Roy starts counting the hours by the drill bell. It rings every hour, on the hour. Around the clock, through the night. Well, what he thinks must be the night—the cell has no windows and a dull bulb hangs from the ceiling, flickering every so often but never shutting off. There's nothing to make a mark with—the walls are smooth concrete, bare, exposed, impossible to scratch a transmutation circle into. Instead, he keeps a mental tally, a number he repeats over and over in his head or under his breath, until the bell clangs again and the number goes up by one.

After thirty hours there are footsteps and then a tray of cold soup and a stale roll are shoved through the grate at the bottom of the door. He crams his face near the opening, trying to glean something, _anything_ , but the grate slams shut as soon as the food is pushed through. They've given him a cup of water too, but most has already spilled down the sides. He digs into the food ravenously.

The bell wakes him every hour when he tries to sleep. He huddles in his uniform, incrementing the tally, and forces his mind to quiet, to forget how cold and hard the concrete floor is. When he finally feels himself drifting, the bell wails again.

At forty-seven hours they bring him more food. This time, Roy tries talking to whoever pushes the tray through. The grate slams shut apathetically and the footsteps fade into silence. Roy hurtles the tray at the wall and immediately regrets it; after he hurtles insults at the silence while licking as much of the soup as he can off the floor.

After a hundred hours he starts to lose a few here and there. The bell doesn't wake him as much and his waking hours aren't as sharp anymore. He tries to compensate for the missed ticks, to judge how much he's slept, but it's impossible. When he's awake he's as tired as if he hadn't slept at all, but the unconscious hours disappear into dreams that feel like they last for years. He dreams of the Military Police dragging him naked across the square in Central. They've fed him seven, maybe eight times? That's something like a week, unless they've been feeding him less frequently…the gnawing ache in his stomach makes him wonder if that's true. He dreams Lieutenant Hawkeye is leaning over him, holding a whip. She caresses his cheek with her calloused hand.

"Oh Roy, what have you done to me?"

"You never call me Roy," he says to her. She kisses him fiercely, and then the whip is licking his skin, lighting it aflame. He dreams of the Elrics holding knives to his throat, Winry Rockbell standing at a podium ordering his execution. Falman and Havoc strung from the windows of Central command, dead eyes leering. Riza's lips, Riza's lips. The number—the tally—is always in his head, but he isn't sure of it anymore. Is it one hundred seventy-two or two hundred seventy-one? Is that the real number or the one he dreamed?

"Hey!" he screams at the walls, "Whatever it is, do it already! Kill me, if that's your plan! Just let me _the fuck_ out of here!"

Maes comes to visit him, and he knows he's starting to lose it.

"Hughes," he says, "I hate to break this to you but—"

"I'm dead. I'm a figment of your imagination. I know, I know, Roy-boy, don't ruin the fun. Don't you want the company?"

"Only crazy people talk to the voices in their heads," he mutters. "And even crazier people see them."

"You've really done yourself in this time, haven't you Roy?" Maes chides. "What happened to the big plan? Becoming Furher?"

"There were things that had to be done first."

"You're not getting any younger, Roy. Clock's ticking."

It's always when Roy wants to punch him most that the phantom disappears, and he's left with the numbers and the walls and the dreams. He stares up at the flickering bulb on the ceiling, wondering if it's enough to slit his wrists with if he shatters it. If he gives up, they've won, but who's even keeping track anymore? Maybe they've forgotten about him, left him here to rot in this cell. How many ticks has it been since the grate last slid open, since he's had a cup of water?

And then one day the footsteps are accompanied by other sounds: someone struggling, the scuffle of a bodies, a voice—a real, actual voice—hollering thickly against a gag. The footsteps pass his cell; there's a groan of metal, and then a resounding thud. Somewhere to his left, the voice begins cursing and Roy wonders if this is another figment of his imagination. It sounds real, realer than Maes, but somehow not as real as the dreams. At the same time that he dares to hope there's another person in this void, he hopes more fervently that he's well and truly lost it. He doesn't want the voice to be real, doesn't want to think about what that means if it is.

After several minutes the cursing fades to silence, and only then does he speak up.

"Fullmetal?"

* * *

 _A/N: More to come_

 _-JR_


End file.
